


Take My Hand

by okeydokey (LilMissNerdfighter)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Author was half asleep when she wrote this, Fluff, Holding Hands, John's in denial and painfully oblivious, Little bits of slight angst amongst the fluff, M/M, Mary's boyfriend is already taken, Sherlock's patient (for once)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-10
Updated: 2013-07-10
Packaged: 2017-12-18 09:08:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/878095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilMissNerdfighter/pseuds/okeydokey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As far as John is concerned, the first time a couple holds hands is a milestone- an indication that the relationship is running smoothly. So what does it mean when holding Sherlock's hand comes almost naturally?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take My Hand

John was sure that for most ‘couples’ (it was hard not to laugh at the term, even now); holding hands for the first time was a momentous occasion. With Sarah it had been during the first stunt at the circus, and with Jeanette he had squeezed her hand so tight that she had complained. Despite the string of women (he hated that term as well, it hadn’t taken the lecture from Harry for him to realise how demeaning the phrase was, but he couldn’t think of a better one), each time he had slipped his hand into hers, it had earned him a grin and was stored away for further use. Although, of course, he hadn’t needed that information for very long, and now it only served as a reminder of just how many dates and mini-milestones it had taken for John to realise just how furiously in denial he had been.

However, the first time Sherlock grabbed John’s hand, it barely registered with him. The adrenaline and the feeling of his feet pounding against the pavement drowned out the little voice in his head that was trying to file away the moment. Their laughter spiked the evening air as they ran and John clung to Sherlock’s hand, no longer being dragged along but racing alongside, as he was meant to. John suspected that he would’ve noticed the way Sherlock’s hand remained in his for a good ten seconds after they halted in the alleyway, breathless and giggling, if he hadn’t been too busy trying to articulate the way it felt to have his head spinning and the sensation of excitement pulsing through his veins.  
‘Brilliant. Oh God-‘  
‘Excellent shot; slowed him down considerably. Lestrade should be on his way-‘  
‘Did you see his face? He looked like-‘  
‘He didn’t know what hit him.’  
‘He didn’t know what hit him?! God, Sherlock, that’s awful.’

John didn’t notice the loss of Sherlock’s hand as he tried to muffle his giggling with both of his palms. Something felt a little sadder than before, but he didn’t register the niggling sensation of loneliness in the back of his mind until John had finished laughing on Sherlock’s shoulder, a taxi had been called and John had stumbled up to bed, the faint sound of Sherlock’s violin following him up the stairs. It was only when the dark closed in around him that it hit him. John was no stranger to loneliness, but now the violin and the lamplight had vanished, leaving only silence and the faint glow of pale orange streetlights. It was more potent than before, and had been that way ever since he had spent his first evening in 221B. As a consequence he had spent more nights away from home, even if it was just nursing beer in a bar with Mike. Sherlock didn’t seem to notice, and it meant that when he finally staggered home, he collapsed onto his bed without a second thought. Tonight, however, his buzzing brain refused to let him lapse into sleep and John was left to face the darkness. He knew that Sherlock was only thirty-four steps away; all he had to do was slip down the stairs and he wouldn’t be alone. If Harry had been there, she would’ve called him a coward and shoved him in Sherlock’s direction. But Harry wasn’t there, and John wasn’t sure why the persistent ache in his chest seemed to crave Sherlock’s attention. He’d sooner be a coward and fall asleep alone, than spend all night feeling awkward. Not that he ever felt awkward around Sherlock anymore, he hadn’t for months. Uncomfortable, yes, but never awkward.

Still, he stayed put, wrapping an arm around his pillow. Sleep would come, even if it took all night. Tomorrow, John decided, he would ask Mary if she wanted to go out for a drink, and the lonely nights would stop.

Of course, that wasn’t how it played out. Through a combination of scalding tea, spilt on the floor, dates cancelled to chase Sherlock around London and one too many missed phone calls, Mary quietly told him that she didn’t think it was going to work out. They were too different; she deserved better. John agreed, reaching over the piles of paperwork to hold her hand one last time. He had known they weren’t quite right together either.

Sherlock had taken to grabbing his hand as they ran more frequently now and John had started to notice and initiate the contact himself. His hand felt right, grasping at coat sleeves and holding on for dear life. Sherlock’s hands were so different to Mary’s, whose were soft and cool, but gentle- peaceful. They had never cradled cups of tea at 3AM as sustenance for the long night ahead. Mary’s hands had never handled a gun- and should never have had to- and would tilt a magnifying glass at the wrong angle to see clearly.

John didn’t dream of Mary’s hands pulling him close, or throwing his phone across the room because ‘those morons can wait’. When John’s eyes flickered shut, his mind drifted to the battlefield Sherlock showed him. The loneliness still stabbed him, even when Mary had kissed him and told him to sleep. In the 6 weeks, 3 days, 4 hours and 27 minutes John spent desperately trying to fall in love with Mary, he only managed to prove to himself just how little he wanted a life with her. He was sure that in a parallel universe he would have loved her and would have treasured every moment spent with her. But that wasn’t the universe he lived in. It wasn’t a universe he wanted.

It was early evening when John returned home, clutching the few possessions he had retrieved from Mary’s tidy flat. The usual assortment of chemistry set and experiments stood proudly on the kitchen table, as if daring John to try and move them. He didn’t look in the fridge; he hadn’t been home in three days and didn’t want to see what Sherlock had decided to mix with jam and milk. Despite the array of Sherlock’s things which had covered almost every surface of their rooms, John’s chair remained untouched. It was the sole clear space in what looked like the whole of their flat. John wondered how much effort it had taken for Sherlock to keep his chair empty. Books were even stacked on Sherlock’s seat, and the revolver lay on the mantelpiece, next to the skull.  
Usually, John would’ve attempted to tidy the array of trinkets that filled their flat, but that evening he couldn’t bring himself to move a single item. Instead, he dumped his laptop and his bag of books, random items of clothing and teabags by the door and sidestepped across the carpet until he reached his chair. But just as he was about to fling himself down into the cushions, he saw the note.

_With Lestrade at the Yard. Will be back soon –SH_

Balanced precariously on the side of the table, it was almost scribbled, as if Sherlock wasn’t sure if he wanted to write it, but changed his mind at the last moment. John stared at the blindingly white sheet of paper, shooting a longing glance at his chair, arms opened invitingly. No, he shook his head banishing all thoughts of tea and toast by the fire. Yes, Sherlock would come home soon, but John had to go to him.

The more John thought about it, Sherlock had been displaying tiny signs that maybe he wasn’t as cold as everyone tried to pretend. He occasionally let John feed him when he was working and sometimes ceased his protesting long enough to be ushered into his room for sleep. He made sure John was okay every so often and more and more often he reached for John’s hand when they ran. John was sure that if he took one of the relationship quizzes Harry had tried out on him when he was younger, they would scream at him that his ‘crush’ liked him back.

John wished he had just kept hold of Sherlock’s hand when they stopped running and hadn’t decided to spend months on end chasing after women who held no interest for him. It had taken him entirely too long to realise that the loneliness he felt wasn’t due to a lack of company, it was all down to a lack of Sherlock. He couldn’t focus on the wasted time, because if that note wasn’t a sign that Sherlock hoped John would come home, he didn’t know what was.

Grabbing his keys, John ran down the stairs and back out into the street. After that, it was easy. The taxi driver barely spoke to him, and he had no messages, so he had plenty of time to plan how he was going to tell Sherlock that… that he needed him to make the pain go away? No- that he was the reason John couldn’t keep a girlfriend? The reason he didn’t want a girlfriend? No… He was the light in his darkness? God no, what the fuck did that even mean?

In the end, the hundreds of rehearsed scenarios never happened. There was no time for poetic declarations of um-I-think-I-might-almost-love-you, or for dramatic reunions, despite their separation only being a matter of days. Instead, John barely had time to note the way Sherlock’s eyes lit up slightly and the way Greg relaxed before he was being dragged out of the door. Sherlock’s hand was cold and strong as they hurtled down the street.

‘There’s been another murder,’ Sherlock told him in-between sharp turns and only just avoided collisions with lamp-posts. John smiled at the seamless induction back into their chase, and let Sherlock guide him through the alleys and across roads, which only two hours before had been teaming with cars. He knew where he was going, and John trusted him to lead them in the right direction.

In a flurry of blue lights and glowing jackets, they reached the crime scene. Once they had slowed, ducking under the plastic tape, Sherlock relaxed his grip on John’s hand, ever so slightly, waiting for John to pull away. But this time, he didn’t. Turning slightly to smile at Sherlock, John squeezed his hand, revelling in the brief flicker of surprise that crossed Sherlock’s face. Sherlock’s brow furrowed a little, as if considering a challenge, before he returned the gesture, eyes softening a little. John intertwined their fingers a little more and the corners of Sherlock’s mouth twitched into an almost smile.

It was a milestone worth filing away for another day.


End file.
